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Updated: June 19, 2025
When alone with Madame Guerard I thought I would rehearse my three curtseys. "Mon petit Dame," I said, "tell me whether they are right." I made the curtseys, murmuring, "Sire... Sire..." I began over again several times, looking down at my dress as I said "Sire..." when suddenly I heard a stifled laugh.
I sent Madame Guerard to the Mairie in the neighbourhood of the Odeon, where such provisions were distributed, but some brute answered her that when I had removed all the religious images from my ambulance I should receive the necessary food. M. Herisson, the mayor, with some functionary holding an influential post, had been to inspect my ambulance.
My cook was installed in the public foyer. I had bought her an immense cooking range, so that she could make soups and herb-tea for fifty men. Her husband was chief attendant. I had given him two assistants, and Madame Guerard, Madame Lambquin, and I were the nurses. Two of us sat up at night, so that we each went to bed one night in three.
Such notable anarchists as Tortellier, Malatesta, Grave, Pouget, Pelloutier, Delesalle, Hamon, and Guérard were sent to London as the representatives of the French trade unions.
He drove himself, and his daughter, Jarrett, my sister, Madame Guerard, and another elderly lady, whose name I have forgotten, were with us. Seven other carriages followed. It was all very amusing indeed. On our arrival at the quay we were received by this comic Henry, shaggy-looking this time from head to foot, and his hands encased in fingerless woollen gloves.
"Married! but it is not of this young man I wish to speak, but of his sister, of Genevieve; tell me of her." "I only learned, madam, that she had married a tailor, named Guerard who, after having been very unsuccessful in business, died suddenly, leaving her wholly destitute with two young children." I immediately wrote the following note to my early friend:
"My dear little Sarah give up such an idea, I beseech you." But by this time it was a fixed idea with me, and I was very determined about it. I went downstairs, packed my trunk, and then returned to Madame Guerard. I had wrapped up a pewter fork in paper, and this I threw against one of the panes of glass in a skylight window opposite.
Fame, like electricity, is thus positive and negative; and if a writer must be Somebody to make himself of permanent interest to the world at large, he must not less be Nobody like Junius to have his namelessness embalmed by Mons. Guérard. And yet, again, how perverse is human nature! how more perverse is literary taste!
We shall study in the next chapter his Neo-Impressionist comrades, and we shall now speak of some illustrators more advanced in years than he. The oldest in date is the engraver Henri Guérard, who died three years ago. He had married Eva Gonzalès and was a friend of Manet's, many of whose works have been engraved by him.
I went back to the Hotel Frascati frozen, and in the night I was so feverish that Dr. Gibert was requested to call. Madame Guerard, who was sent for by my alarmed maid, came at once. I was feverish for two days. During this time the newspapers continued to pour out a flood of ink on paper. This turned to bitterness, and I was accused of the worst misdeeds.
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